


Improbable

by elsmaster



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Excessive use of italics, Gen, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-25
Updated: 2013-04-25
Packaged: 2017-12-09 11:22:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/773648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elsmaster/pseuds/elsmaster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neither of them is supposed to be there but they are and they'll just have to work with that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Improbable

He doesn’t expect the collision even though he should, running into the crowds, heart in his throat; muscles, his entire _body_ protesting against the endless running the endless hiding. He doesn’t expect the collision and he certainly does not, absolutely _does not_ expect what he sees when he glances up, and when did he even fall _down_ , he wasn’t supposed to fall down, he hates gravity and he hates his legs and there’s no time to hate anything right now because now, _now_ is when he needs to keep running.

But.

_But._

_John_ , John Hamish Watson, formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, his blogger, his one and only friend, _John_ , is there and he shouldn’t be there, at all, because of all the impossible people in the world he is the one who absolutely _should not_ be there. But he _is_ and it’s wrong and unexpected and ruins _everything_ , and as Sherlock stares at the man in shock for all of three seconds, he hopes, he _prays_ to no one in particular, that John doesn’t recognise him, that John will be too dazed to put the pieces together, that he will take it as nothing more than his traumatised mind playing tricks on him, even though his mind _can’t_ be doing that anymore, not after nearly two and a half years because that’s not what Sherlock had planned _at all_.

He’s supposed to have moved on by now, supposed to have forgotten about the man who once dragged him along on his wild chases around London, who hid behind bins and darkened corners with him, who said hurtful things to him and never apologised, hoping it would make moving on a bit easier.

But as Sherlock stares at John in shock for all of three seconds, he knows John has recognised him, and whether he has moved on since the two of them last stood this close together or not, Sherlock knows John will come after him, will run until his bad leg gives out and will not stop even then. He knows John will not let him go, he never has, not of his own volition, and it would be so easy just to say his name, to acknowledge his presence and to invite him to join him on his escape from the four Russian thugs who are after his head and possibly most of his internal organs and will gladly smash any of the aforementioned against any random wall they deem appropriate, but only if they _do_ catch him, and he _really_ should be running now, not staring at John, whose face begins to show the textbook signs of recognition and disbelief, and who will take a step forward _any second now._

Sherlock turns, has to specifically tell his muscles to move and to _run_ , keep going at twice the speed he has run so far, because the thugs are gaining on him, he has given them _three seconds_ to gain on him, and no matter how heavy and bulky and graceless they are, there are _four_ of them, and just hiding in the crowd will not do, because they will split the crowd with nothing but their presence, and Sherlock runs.

He elbows his way through the dawdling masses, thinking of nothing but his feet. Nothing but his feet. _Nothing_ but his _feet_.

He takes a left, scampers through a narrow alley and rounds the next corner to the right. He stays perfectly still for thirty-six seconds, and, when he hears surprised yelps from the street behind him, dashes forward, back into the crowd, across the street into another alley, up a fire ladder and down another. He leans against a wall, remains hidden in an alcove, flattening himself into the red brick behind him.

When he glances into the street, he sees John, looking around him, looking for something (someone, some _one_ ), and then making a run for the alley across, all wrong, but almost right. John merely glances down the narrow pathway between two buildings before turning back, stopping to stand only an arm’s length away from where Sherlock is trying to become one with the wall and before Sherlock can stop himself, before he can tell his over-active brain a resounding _no_ , he has grabbed John by the arm, pulled him into the alcove and pressed him against the red brick, forearm braced against John’s sternum and a gloved hand on his mouth.

They stare at one another, John’s eyes wide, and breathing heavy, pulse thrumming under Sherlock’s arm. Sherlock knows he’s none the better and he knows he looks just as bewildered: this isn’t supposed to happen, this ruins _everything_ , this is a whole new flavour of dangerous and this will be his downfall, all their downfall, and he will have to make John go away, will have to make him hate him again and he hates this so much and there’s no time to.

Sherlock hears the approaching heavy footfalls and the shouted commands and keeps his eyes on the street not three feet away, steadying his breathing, hoping for nothing more than the four to move along, for them to be as idiotic as they appear. They are, and he isn’t surprised, which means there’s no need to be relieved, because if he isn’t surprised, there was nothing that _could_ have gone wrong in the first place, which isn’t exactly how he felt only minutes earlier and _god_ , he’s contradicting himself already.

He waits another fifteen seconds before slowly stepping back and releasing his grip on John.

His brain slows down to walking pace, which feels odd and sudden, after going on overdrive for the past week, month, _year_. God. He can hear the sounds of the city around him, can see his breath coming out in white clouds in the chilly weather, can hear John’s slightly uneven breathing (did he cover John’s nose too; god, he’s an _idiot_ ), can feel the shoes on his feet and the four and a half days without food or sleep under his skin, in his stomach, straining his muscles, pounding against his skull from the inside.

‘John,’ he says, surprised at the sound of his own voice; breaking, rusty, covered in dust, barely used, when there are so many different voices in him and none of them are _his_ , which is exactly why they’ve seen more use since he didn’t die.

He hasn’t been himself and now, here, with John, he _is_ , and when John’s fist connects with the side of Sherlock’s face, he expects it but stumbles backwards anyway, stunned, ungraceful. He stands slumped against the grey stone behind his back and looks at John, who looks at him, clearly unsure what to feel, and Sherlock shares the sentiment entirely.

‘I’m,’ Sherlock begins and John gives him a look that says _Shut up_ and _I don’t care_ and _I know_ all at the same time.

Sherlock swallows and John takes a deep breath.

‘You were running from something,’ John says.

‘Yes,’ Sherlock says because he can’t say anything else and his voice is _his own_ , which still needs a lot more getting used to, and, somehow, he knows now is not the time to explain anything.

‘Should you keep running?’

And Sherlock feels it then, the familiar rush of adrenalin in his veins, surging into his limbs and his brain and his face. He grins and John grins and suddenly they are in an alley in Soho, chasing after a petty thief because there’s nothing good on telly and nothing beats a jog through the London underworld on a Monday night, anyway.

‘Yes,’ he says and turns to run.

And this time, even though it’s wrong and unexpected and will ruin _everything_ and be the end of them all, John follows him. And it’s awfully, unexpectedly, inexplicably _fine_.

**Author's Note:**

> This was written as a part of a bigger thing that I'm never, apparently, going to finish, but since this is one of my favourite bits I wrote for that thing, I might as well post it as a strange fragment-like stand-alone thing. And hope it makes sense as such.


End file.
